


A Person is Not a Painting

by sudowoodo



Category: Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them (Movies), Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Accidental Cruising, Albus and Gellert are nerds, Excessive Motif Usage, Falling in Lust, Gellert is a Tease, Inexperienced Albus, Kissing, M/M, Oneshot, Outrageous Flirting, Triwizard AU, Young Albus Dumbledore, Young Gellert Grindelwald, sexual awakening, somewhat resolved sexual tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-26
Updated: 2019-02-26
Packaged: 2019-11-05 16:54:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,026
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17922701
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sudowoodo/pseuds/sudowoodo
Summary: The young man righted himself and appraised Albus for a moment, eyes dragging down his body in a way that made Albus feel quite indecent. He huffed a laugh and took a couple of strides, not directly towards Albus, but closer. “I always longed to touch the paintings. Caravaggio had a… an intimacy with the male form, did he not?”Albus caught the devilish glint in the other boy's eyes and clicked his tongue. “Oh, must it be obscene? Can it not simply be an admiration of beauty?”“It can, but why should it stop at that? You have five senses—why stop at sight? Why stop at looking?”The boy approached him, holding his gaze with heated intensity, and Albus, with his back to a tree, found himself suddenly trapped on all sides. He was terribly close now—so close Albus could have counted his eyelashes and calculated the exact angle of his jaw. Head lowered, chest still bared, the boy reached out and touched Albus’ hand.He glanced up, dark eyes dancing. “Is this obscene?”Albus’ cheeks were hot, his heart wildly beating. “No.”





	A Person is Not a Painting

**Author's Note:**

> Don't ask where this came from because I really have no idea, but everything I know about Caravaggio comes from a film called Postcards from London which I saw last year at an LGBT+ film festival, which had me and the elderly man next to me CACKLING while his husband shook his head in dismay. This is not as funny as that, but hopefully... fun? 
> 
> Anyway, enjoy!
> 
> Please let me know what you think in the comments or come say hi on [Tumblr](https://loveyoutopiecesdistractionetc.tumblr.com/)!

It was not uncommon for Albus to abuse the privileges of his Prefect’s badge to take a stroll across the Hogwarts grounds at nightfall. As seen from his window in Gryffindor tower, the view had the look of a Renaissance landscape—an expanse of green lawn and lake, backed by rolling hills in every direction as far as the eye could see, and every leaf of the forest needlessly detailed to the extent that he could practically hear each one’s individual rustling in the autumn wind. From the fading light of the horizon the sky seemed to stretch infinitely upwards, the clouds dappled with more shade and colour than seemed altogether possible for the lateness of the evening, and in the dramatic baroque fashion, throwing into relief a recent addition to the scenery: the imposing presence of the Durmstrang ship.

It was rare, however, that he had any peace in his dorm to adore the view quietly, rapturously, as it deserved to be adored, and so out of necessity he often slipped out and became one of those dreadful figures in the foreground, facing front and posing, as much a part of the image as the background was, but so selfishly unaware of all the majesty surrounding him. Still, it was preferable to admire just a slice of it, he supposed, if the whole thing was not available for his viewing. He was rather near-sighted in any case.

The night was dark enough so that in certain shadows of the castle he was all but invisible to any onlooker, and Albus was confident in his stealth as he set off out of the cloisters, across the covered bridge, and onto the sloping lawn. There was a tiny speck of red light near the lake that caught his eye as he walked, and being curious by nature he decided to take a path that would bring him alongside it. But as he approached he realised it was only a cigarette, held aloft from the crossed arms of a Durmstrang student, who was leaning against a wooden post by the shore. 

Albus felt a little embarrassed then, in such an expanse of grounds, to pass by so close to a stranger in the dark. Thus he treaded a little heavier than normal in the hopes he might not take the boy by surprise, it being far too late to turn back now. 

As he came closer the young man turned his head at the footsteps, and the orange-blue light of the sinking sun reflected off the lake to fall gently upon his face. Albus recognised him, too: a boy so fair he had caught his eye on more than one occasion since the other school’s arrival—rather, he drew the gaze in such a way that one could hardly look away. His eyes were dark and heavy-lidded, his cheeks wide and jaw obtuse, and atop his head was a mop of blonde curls, giving him the charming look of an adolescent cherub. Albus was struck with a strange tightness in his chest at the sight of him, all the more enchanting in the dusk. And ever since he’d first laid eyes on him, Albus could have sworn he had seen him somewhere before.

As the stranger stared at him, Albus found himself totally transfixed and unable to utter a single word or make any gesture of greeting. The eyes that met his were almost half-closed as they studied him, flicking down his body and up again. Then the boy lifted the cigarette back to his lips, meeting Albus’ gaze once more and cocking his eyebrows briefly. 

Three seconds it took for Albus to regain his senses, raising his brow in return and giving a quick nod before averting his gaze. His neck was quite warm and his heart hammered in his chest, buzzing its way down into his belly as he walked on.

After another fifty yards, Albus realised with a cold wash of fear that he was being followed. He did not need to glance around to know it, for he could sense the presence quite clearly—footsteps softly crunching the gravel path behind him, the scent of tobacco and sweat quivering in the evening air.

He did not know _why_ , not _really_ , although perhaps in some corner of his mind he did know a little of the things done by boys in dark shadows of parks and alleyways. But that kind of imagining was buried very, very deep, and so he imagined instead that it was nothing more than a coincidence. 

With that in mind, and on something of a whim, he took a turn off the path and into the edge of the whispering forest. And— _he was followed again_ , the pursuing footsteps soft but sure as they trundled now through the long, dew-damp grass. Albus felt a panicked sweat break out on his brow to turn chill against the night air, his eyes blinking rapidly as the low light of the evening grew dimmer with the thickening trees around him. He began to slow his speed, allowing the other to catch up, knowing he should turn now and confront the youth before it was too late, but scared to do so, scared to do anything but walk. 

Finally Albus halted in front of a large tree and spun around, but the boy had picked up his pace and was already upon him, grasping the front of his robes and yanking him towards him. Albus, heart in his throat, had his wand pressed to the boy’s chest before he could move another inch. 

The boy halted at once and dropped his head, contemplating the wand with mouth slightly open. Then he let out a short burst of laughter and placed a hand on Albus’ arm. It travelled down to prise the wand from his fingers, and patted him down to find a pocket to return it to. Albus did not know why he let him, but he did. At first he watched the hands, but then looked up and locked eyes with the stranger instead, searching his face for some explanation, and in response the boy smirked, taking his hand again and pressing it to his crotch.

Albus yelped and shoved him off. “Goodness—!” he gasped, his voice breaking some magic of the night and startling him to sense. He started laughing out of pure shock, ducking away and starting back towards the grounds. “N-no, I—I’m sorry, you’ve misunderstood—” 

“I was not mistaken,” said the boy. Albus stopped in his tracks. “You looked at me.”

Albus swallowed, his mouth very dry. He glanced backwards. “You know, I would say that _you_ looked at _me_.”

The boy’s lips twitched into a smile, and Albus was struck again with how beautiful he was—dangerously so. And he really did look so strangely familiar. “You have been looking. Staring. I’ve seen you. You should get better at hiding it if you don’t want to be misunderstood.”

Albus felt himself blush. That was difficult to deny, although he had no idea he had been so obvious. “I… I did stare, I admit. But only because I thought I recognised you from somewhere.”

“Recognised me?” repeated the boy, tilting his head back.

It hit Albus at once, where he knew him from, and suddenly he exclaimed, “ _Boy with a Basket of Fruit!_ You look just like him, in the eyes and the chin. Though, your curls are blonde, and…”

The young man burst out laughing, wholly and widely and throwing his head back. Suddenly he turned around and rummaged with himself, then spun back with his shirt unbuttoned to the navel and his hair bed-messed. He struck the pose, arms aloft and chin lifted, one tanned shoulder exposed through his soft white shirt.

Albus found himself laughing too. “Yes, that’s him! But exactly!” 

Tossing his hair, the boy closed his eyes and drew the back of his hand across his forehead. He was bloody gorgeous, Albus realised, and he absolutely knew it. Still, the sight of that shirt slipping further off the shoulder had the butterflies in Albus’ stomach frantic in flight.

“Beautiful, is he not?”

Albus paused, eyes raking over him. “He is. You are. I… I am sorry for staring.”

“It did not bother me.” The young man righted himself and appraised Albus for a moment, eyes dragging up and down his body in a way that made Albus feel quite indecent. He huffed a laugh and took a couple of strides, not directly towards Albus, but closer. “I always longed to touch the paintings. Caravaggio had a… an intimacy with the male form, did he not?”

Albus caught the devilish glint in the other boy's eyes and clicked his tongue. “Oh, must it be _obscene_? Can it not simply be an admiration of beauty?”

“It can, but why should it stop at that? You have five senses—why stop at sight? Why stop at looking?” 

The boy approached him, holding his gaze with heated intensity, and Albus backed up into a tree, finding himself suddenly trapped on all sides. He was terribly close now—so close Albus could have counted his eyelashes and calculated the exact angle of his jaw. Head lowered, chest still bared, the boy reached out and touched Albus’ hand. 

He glanced up, dark eyes dancing. “Is this obscene?”

Albus’ cheeks were hot, his heart wildly beating. “No.”

The boy chuckled softly, and it set all Albus’ hairs on end. Then, ever so carefully as Albus stood quite still, the boy leaned closer, turning to brush his lips to Albus’ ear.

“ _Close your eyes._ ”

Albus shuddered as the voice trembled through him, and did as he was told, realising there was no point resisting, realising he did not want to resist at all. 

With one hand still cupped gently around his own, the young man took the other and brought them both to his face, warm breath on Albus’ fingers making him draw back with a start. But the boy’s hands held him there, brushing Albus’ fingers along his cheek instead. It was surprisingly smooth; Albus himself had been shaving daily out of necessity since a much younger age, his coarse auburn hair lending only to dry skin and persistent stubble. Awed at his softness, and eyes still tightly shut, Albus began exploring on his own—fingertips tracing the lines of the face, clumsy at first, but careful around eyelids and delicate lashes, hesitant around full lips.

Holding his breath, Albus let both hands roam next into soft silken hair, suppressing a gasp as the other boy sighed contently and leaned into his hand.

Albus did not quite know how to proceed, fumbling around in the darkness, but with little warning the boy slipped between his outstretched arms and rested his head upon Albus’ shoulder. And now Albus found himself confronted with a body—a whole body in front of him, not just a face at his fingertips—a body rising and falling in time with both of their breaths, and the total erasure of anything else in the world that may have mattered to him in that moment or in any other moment besides. He hovered, hands still in the boy’s hair, then turned his head and let his cheek come into contact with the boy’s naked shoulder. He could feel the other’s heartbeat but could not breathe himself, and when the boy sighed again and sank against him, Albus found himself melting from somewhere deep inside, deeper into that embrace, and felt his heart fill up as he stroked his arms down the boy’s broad back, tentative at first, then moving up again to flatten over the muscle. 

He had to draw a breath at last so as not to suffocate, and with it inhaled the heady scent of smoke smothered sweat, gasping softly, his heart a frantic pounding, his whole body a drum. That bare shoulder beneath his face—so purposefully placed below his mouth—smelled sickly sweet and slightly woody, like fruit kept in a basket too long. Blindly, he breathed again, following the skin up the neck to the ear and finally into those luscious blonde curls, inhaling deep this time and groaning quietly on the outward breath. He was not sure what sort of smell it was or even why it was _good_ , but it spoke to him, sang to him, lifted him up and made him feel quite warm. It stirred something within him, aroused him from darkness, and instilled in him a sudden awareness of every part of his body, some parts more than others. And with that he remembered the glimpse of the other in his hand before he’d snatched it away—and it had been terribly warm, too.

The boy turned his face slightly, a shiver of breath on Albus’ cheek. “Is this obscene?” he whispered, as if reading Albus’ mind, and drew him closer still, the plains of their bodies moulding along a flat, white-hot seal. Now Albus was panting, splaying his hands on the boy’s back and clenching them up in his shirt, disastrously excited, his whole body a trembling furnace ready to spill over. Every shallow gasp pushed him further to intoxication, every slightest movement lit him up. The boy’s scent was in his mouth now, in his head, and he needed to sense him further, needed to feel him, inside and out. Breath hot on his ear sent his head to spinning, and he dragged his mouth along the boy’s cheek, searching for lips, for tongue, for taste.

But then the boy was pulling back, and Albus opened his eyes and blinked in the semi-darkness to see a smirk on those lips. Albus breathed heavy, open-mouthed, and whimpered a little as he pushed his face forward again in an attempt to meet them. Instead the boy reached up to clamp a hand over his eyes, and Albus groaned.

“Tell me again, how you only wished to look?”

Albus scrunched his eyes shut, and sighed, reaching up to yank down the offending hand. He breathed in and out a few times, keeping his eyelids obediently closed. “I’ve looked—touched—smelled and heard… and now you would stop me from tasting your beauty?”

The boy grinned—Albus didn’t know how he knew, but he knew—and, oh, what an evil grin it was.  “And what would you do with all that adoration? Would you paint me in oils, sculpt me in marble, write me in sonnets?”

“No,” replied Albus. “You are already a work of art. A masterpiece of all the senses. And I am no artist—just a humble worshipper of beauty.”

The young man sniggered. “Then how, pray tell, do you plan to worship me?”

Albus wet his lips, then blindly lunged forward to snatch the boy’s face into a kiss.

He missed his target by a wide margin, but the boy just laughed and took his face in both hands to press their lips together at last. His face had a pretty blush tainting it after they emerged. “Oh, you catch on fast.”

“I’m a quick learner.”

Laughter erupted from the boy, his eyes shut tight and head thrown back. “You are cute,” he said, his voice high with delight. “Oh, I think I like you, just a bit. You will not draw your wand on me next time, then?”

“I—” Albus’ face went hot, and the boy cackled again, shoving him playfully. “W-well, that depends on you, I imagine.”

The boy bit his plump bottom lip while smirking, dark eyes lowered to contemplate Albus’ mouth.

“Next time?” repeated Albus.

“Next time,” the boy assured him. “For you would surely be sick if you gorged on the whole basket at once.” 

Albus let out a small noise at the image that conjured, and the boy leaned in and pressed another chaste kiss to his mouth. Barely having the sense to open his eyes afterwards, Albus felt the boy retreating from his arms before he saw him turn away. 

“Tomorrow, then?” the young man called, laughing as he turned to walk backwards away from Albus. “Same time, same place. You bring all your offerings, and I will bring my fruit.”

Nodding, smiling, Albus watched him go adoringly. In motion like that he truly looked more like a painting than a person—yet for all the talent of the Baroque, Albus could not think of a single portrait that could compare to this beauty. Albus had never seen a boy who possessed such delicacy and grace, a presence that demanded attention, admiration, adoration—and yet he could seduce with words just as well as with looks, and had seduced Albus with even more than that, with all of his senses, with all of himself. 

Albus realised at once that he wanted him, wholly, beautifully, obscenely—and in ways he didn’t know of yet. He wondered if Caravaggio had felt the same for the boy in the painting, and if the boy had wanted as well. But that was obvious, now: the boy’s desire was plain on parted lips and heavy lids, the painter’s in every stroke and slant of light that cast his beauty into heaven. But for all his efforts, for all the pink cheeks and plump lips, one could never truly know the smoky, sweet scent of that boy’s skin, nor could the laughter from his throat be heard like birdsong in the appraiser’s heart. Even if he’d been moulded in marble, one could not put his arms around him and feel his fingers sink into warm flesh, nor press lips against his hot, wet mouth and taste the complex flavours of his tongue. 

No, one could not even know his name. He was only an image now, could only be adored through the thousands of eyes that fell upon his likeness on a canvass. But Albus’ fruit-bearer knew better how to be adored by a single set of eyes, a single pair of hands, a nose, two ears, and one starving mouth—for he knew well how to use all that to capture a whole heart instead.


End file.
